


A Whisper Lullaby

by spinsterclaire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Pre-A Game of Thrones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterclaire/pseuds/spinsterclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime and Cersei's secret is discovered.</p><p>She and Jaime would meet there as the castle slept, moth-eaten garb hiding his white cloak and her royal finery, so that they looked like the regular townsfolk of Kings Landing. Beneath the shade of the trees, they were neither brother nor sister, man of the Kingsguard nor a rightful queen, but lovers united in a forbidden embrace...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whisper Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Was going through my old shit and found this - one of the first fics I ever wrote! Figured I'd post it. Defintely not what actually happened in the books but, hey, whatever.

 

Sometimes she wakes and forgets. In those early morning moments, she savors the sweetness of half-consciousness, tastes it on her tongue and lips, so that the kisses from the previous night belong to some other suitor. As the sun seeps through the heavy window dressings and Cersei gathers her bearings, she is deaf to the sound of her husband’s heavy breathing. Her arms remain unmarred by graceless groping and rough fingers, no blue to be seen, and the man beside her is not Robert Baratheon.

Instead, Cersei imagines the amber light of dawn transforms the heaping mass to her left into something far more exquisite and far more like her. Golden mane and golden skin, a Lannister lion in his own right, Jaime shares the pillow next to her. She can barely hear him breathe.

~

The first time her twin made her come, Cersei had wept. Not in front of him – no, _never_ in front of him – but after the oaken door clicked shut and he had scurried back to his respective bedchamber. She had collapsed on the floor then, naked beneath her wisp of a robe, and let the tears wash her clean.

Though he had left, she had still been able to _feel_ him – the way his hands had roved all over her, worshipping her, sculpting her into the queen she knew she was destined to be. She had sung her siren song with his hand forcefully covering her parted lips, though the grin on his face and quickening thrusts relayed that he had loved every fugitive note that escaped between his fingers. When she came only minutes after Jaime had snuck under the sheets, she allowed herself to forget everything – who she was, who _they_ were – until she was just another girl with the boy she loved inside of her. The writhing of her body and the sensation of her twin’s release numbed her mind to the ethics of it all, and for the first time in her life she sipped love like a sweet Arbor wine, unafraid of any poison.

But the rapid pitter-patter of his feet outside her room had sung a different tune – one of punishment and shame and emptiness. It was an elegy for her future queendom and his knighthood. Only darkness could arise from these nights spent behind locked doors, she reminded herself, and so she had wept alone in her room at the foolishness of it all.

None of it was “right”, as they had been told so many years ago when their mother had caught them at their sinful game. _Child’s’ play_ , she had called it. But it was more than that; it had always been more than that.

Still, Jaime’s affection was not hers to take, and their love could only be celebrated as two golden heads on spikes. So with strained hiccups and dampened cheeks, Cersei had vowed to never give herself to him again.

 

Her resolve fell with the sinking sun the following evening.

 _Shh_ , he had whispered, kissing her neck and silencing her objections after sneaking into her room. She had barely needed any coaxing by way of his nimble fingers before willingly surrendering herself to the rhythm of his body. Jaime had made love to her over and over again until they both collapsed, exhausted, in a heap of identical limbs and heaving chests. They slept until mid-morning, side by side, something they usually never dared to do.

 

There had been a child after that, though Cersei never did get to hold the poor fellow, her first bastard son. She allowed herself to cry into Jaime’s shoulder then (and only then) with the blood staining her nightclothes and bed sheets, the life fading inside her.

She had felt Jaime’s shoulders quake as they grew wet with her tears, and she fell asleep like that.

 _We had to_ , he said.

When she awoke, his back was to her but he was still silently shaking.

~

Her king of a husband was no Jaime; that was clear as day. His breath stank of ale and his voice grated her nerves raw. Robert fucked Cersei for his pleasure and his pleasure only, taking what the Seven had given him before thousands of witnesses with his little, flaccid cock. She knew that as he pumped between her legs, he imagined her as a different woman. One with brown hair and brown eyes, a wolf girl, _Lyanna_.

 She didn’t weep when _they_ finished, but stared at the ceiling above her, dreaming of a time when love was not a responsibility, but something to revel in. She never fell asleep on her husband’s shoulder; she always woke at dawn.

Cersei refused to bear Robert a child and sabotaged any scares with the aid of certain Flea Bottom sorceresses. The journeys sometimes frightened her – with their impenetrable crowds and uncouth hollering – but she knew the babe would only tighten the noose Robert had tied around her neck. The wrinkled faces and yellow teeth of the old crones were worth the price of this small freedom, Cersei decided.

The gods all said that the fruit of her and Jaime’s love would be a hideous abomination, a disgrace, a monster. But what could be more of an abomination than a child conceived while his mother lay like corpse beneath his father? While she had closed her eyes and ignored the pain and the blood and the bruises that sprouted on her skin the following morning?

 _The world could do with one less drunken stag_ , she told herself as she wound her way through the throng of dirty peasants.

She always made sure to conceal her tracks, killing whoever helped her by slitting their throats with the dagger she had oft dreamt of driving through Robert’s gut (it was Jaime’s). She never wept then, either, like she had when her and her twin’s first had died in her womb. With Robert’s children, she merely drank whatever concoction she was given and left, a smattering of limp bodies lying in her wake as she fled back to the palace. It was only when her moon’s blood came weeks later that she finally allowed herself to breathe and could sense the threat of pooling tears. _Sweet relief._ But she always saved her cries for the Kingswood.

She and Jaime would meet there as the castle slept, moth-eaten garb hiding his white cloak and her royal finery, so that they looked like the regular townsfolk of Kings Landing. Beneath the shade of the trees, they were neither brother nor sister, man of the Kingsguard nor a rightful queen, but lovers united in a forbidden embrace. When she disrobed and stood naked before him, he would kiss away the marks Robert had left behind until her whole body tingled with the sensation of his lips suckling gently at her skin. She would ride him all night under the glow of the stars as he emptied himself into her and made her whole again. Their moans were a song that only they could hear, an anti-prayer to the gods that kept them apart.

 

~

Joffrey came with a full head of golden wisps, all soft and satiny like those of his parents, and his eyes were Lannister emeralds as well.  His face contorted into a monstrous _O_ , and he screamed like a wildling as the midwife handed him to his mother. It was then that Cersei decided she had never seen anything so beautiful, so perfect. He was hers, all _hers_ – yet another golden extension of her own self. _Though he will be luckier_ ; _respected,_ she thought. It was more of a promise than a statement.

 _Joffery_ , she had whispered, breathless at the site of the squirming child cradled within her arms. Jaime had stood by her side, smiling, as she named the babe and brought him closer to her breast.

Robert had been off hunting. He would bring back his wife a bloody carcass, it limbs all bent and broken and the remains of an arrow sticking out of its chest. Cersei would present him with an heir, freshly swaddled, and the king would grunt his approval with the as much enthusiasm as she would show the dead game.

 _Joffrey,_ Jaime had repeated quietly, and he leaned down to gently kiss his child upon the forehead. It was then that he decided he had never seen anything more beautiful. She was his, _his_ _Cersei_ , forever now. _She is mine and I am hers,_ he thought. It was a desperate wish more than anything else.

Jaime's face fell as he straightened himself to look upon his sister and their son. He imagined that this is what Joanna must have looked like, a golden angel flushed with the glow of motherhood, eyes bright, chest rising and falling like the sun and moon. He wondered if his father had ever felt what he was feeling in that moment, the enormity of it all.

  _My nephew, Prince Joffrey Baratheon,_ he had proclaimed loudly. And those that had accompanied them in the birthing room all cheered and echoed with, _The first of his name!_

But that was it. That was all the affection her brother could afford to say without awakening the suspicions of others. He would play the child’s uncle and nothing more.

 

Years later, once Myrcella and Tommen were born, she strove to keep a greater distance between Jaime and herself, the better to hide their secret from the rest of court. People started wondering, asking questions, and curious inquiries were the only things more dangerous than a sword without its scabbard.

  _Golden hair, all three_ , she had said between haggard breaths as Jaime’s fingers worked beneath her skirts, _We can’t do this anymore, Jaime; we cant. It’s gone too far._

He had continued despite her protestations, and she was helpless to stop him; she could never deny Jaime when he looked at her like that, whispered in her ear like that, and moved in that way. Cersei had let him unravel her on the dressing table.

After they were done, his face, a mirror image of her own, rested upon her chest as they had lay atop the Myrish carpet. _I know_ , he had whispered into her sweat-beaded skin.

And, indeed, it did end there. For a while.

 

~

Cersei took other men into her bed - older and younger, Lannisters and Dornishmen alike – but none of them made her feel the way Jaime had. These strangers lying on top of her were always too rough or too gentle, never giving her what she wanted or knowing that a particular flick of their tongue could send her soaring. Her paramours’ kisses would leave little bruises upon her neck, and the marks only reminded her of Robert. They were not love bites as with Jaime, but battle wounds.

Every time Jaime saw her in the hallways talking to another man, he would turn and stalk away contemptuously as if he were thirteen again. She saw him less and less, but longed for him more and more, and his resentment of her straying while he remained faithful forged an even greater gap between them.

 _This is what I have to do, Jaime. Quit playing the fool, and realize this is what’s right,_ she had explained to him one morning after she’d caught him seething in the corridor after Ser Dunderly left her room. Her hands had balled into frustrated fists as the anger poured out of him. She didn’t like this anymore than he. Why couldn’t he see that?

 _Then why don’t you share that cunt with your cow of a husband,_ he had spat back with an acidic venom, _instead of spreading your legs for every cock that comes your way?_ He paused and chose his next words with care, _You little whore._

Jaime knew there was no love between his sister and Robert. The king himself had his own line of sluts miles long and only preferred the sexual favors of his wife when he was drunk and in want of queenly lips around his cock. He was always gone anyways, off hunting and killing beasts more savage than he.

But Jaime stared at her anyways, his eyes ablaze but pleading for some kind of explanation. _Why not me?_

But he knew that, too – he knew _why_ all too well – and so she slapped him hard across the face before slamming the door. He pounded his fists on the oak, and she responded back by throwing a leather-bound volume of Westerosi history in his direction. The Seven Kingdoms would never remember them as king and queen, she realized, infuriated. _Go away!_ she screamed. After a few more defiant bangs, he finally listened and left. Though he was mad, Cersei knew he would keep her dalliances a secret from the king and the rest of the guard. He was well aware of the consequences that would befall him and his precious sister, otherwise.

She slept with Dunderly again that night out of frustration and again in the morning when dawn crept through the shades.

 

~

It wasn’t until two months later when Jaime was injured on the battlefield that she spoke to him. With his eyes so gentle and body lying so peacefully in the infirmary bed, he looked like the little boy she had loved in small closets and horse stables. He had lain there, unable to move or summon the words to address her, so she had smiled and kissed his lips to excuse him from speaking. Looking around, she saw they were the only two in the room. The maester was off to fetch a vial of milk of the poppy and all others were dining in the great hall, her great husband among them. No doubt he was already hideously drunk and would enjoy slapping her around later on.

She pulled Jaime’s sheets back and took him in her mouth, then and there.

 _Cersei_ …he moaned, but she didn’t stop until he found his release. She climbed on the bed and fucked him moments later, holding him between her thighs and pleasuring herself as she moved up and down, back and forth on top of him. From the contorted expressions on his face, Cersei knew she was hurting him, but she didn’t care. So many years of meaningless sex had dulled her memory of proper lovemaking, and so now all she could do was fuck him hard until she was satisfied.

When she did finish, it wasn’t as it had been before they had drifted apart. This time, she felt nothing, dressed herself, and left without so much as a backwards glance at the man she was leaving behind, exhausted in his bed.

 

She got drunk on a bottle of red that night and awaited Robert’s arrival in their room. When he stumbled towards her and drew back her skirts to claim his golden prize, she closed her eyes and pretended she was somewhere else, far away dancing at the Rock or drinking from a sorceress’ chalice in a Flea Bottom shack.

Perhaps it was the wine or maybe this was all a horrible dream, but every time she wanted to scream and command Robert to stop, she heard her brother’s voice whisper gently in her ear.

_Shh…_

 

~

That had been a fortnight ago, and she had seen Jaime very little, since. She had done her duty as a queen of Westeros, wife of King Robert Baratheon, and trueborn daughter of Tywin Lannister. She had forsaken love to keep her family's name clean. She had always wanted to be queen and she refused to forfeit her crown, no matter the price.

And yet here she was now, praying to whatever god or gods sat high above them all that Robert Baratheon wasn’t at her side, snoring like the drunken pig that he was. She wanted _Jaime_ and she wanted him now, like she used to, before their relationship had fallen apart and she replaced him with lesser lovers. Looking quickly at the sleeping figure next to her, she checked that her husband was sleeping soundly before creeping out from beneath the covers.

 

Cersei could have walked to his room blindfolded and still gotten there without trouble. When she came barreling through the doorway, her twin was sitting in a chair by the window, intently perusing a book on former knights with his finger drifting down the page. Accounts of all the men that preceded him were written there in black ink, heroic and craven deeds reduced to scribbles on parchment in a dusty old tome. Cersei found it depressing, just like the book on Westerosi history, but her brother thought differently. One day, long after he was dead and gone, someone would read about Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer and Queenfucker – perhaps in that very chair. He would be immortal while she would be just another discarded queen, another wife, another slave to a husband’s drunken whimsies.

 He lifted his gaze and met her eyes, confusion playing across his face. _What are you doing here, sister?_

Without a word she walked over to where he sat, ensconced in the rising sunlight. ( _Like the Warrior,_ she thought), and silenced his queries with a kiss. She could sense his timidity at first: should he pull her close and readily forgive, or do the opposite and reject her advance with a forceful shove? But when she placed his hand on her mound and then wrapped fingers around his still-concealed member, he responded just like she knew he would, and he didn’t have to think anymore. She had him now.

 He began to rip away her nightclothes so that she was sitting on top of him, naked and looking like the Maiden, herself, in all her milky-skinned glory. Cersei followed suit and undid his pants, using her teeth to loosen the laces and tangling her fingers in his hair until he was finally out of his breeches. He grabbed her abruptly then, propping himself upright so that he was standing instead of reclined in his leather chair. He pushed her onto his bed.

Jaime took her there while she cried out and screamed his name like a sacred chant, _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime_. She loved the taste of it on her tongue – it was better than yelling those foreign names in the dark of night with a contrived familiarity. They never sounded quite right, like “Jaime” always did.

 Unlike the last time in the infirmary, Jaime and Cersei did not fuck. The way his hands moved over her, guiding her legs so that they wrapped around his torso, reminded her of everything she had allowed herself to forget. She remembered all of the times in the Kingswood, with their bodies glowing under the dim light of the inky sky. She remembered him tip-toeing towards her bed and sliding in beside her, back when they had both been green as grass.

_Shh…_

 Their lovemaking seemed to last for hours, never stopping its ceaseless, melodic rhythm.

As they moved together, both of them heard the faint sound of footsteps ascending the stairs, but neither twin paid heed or broke apart to right themselves. Step by step, the figure drew closer.

 _Ser Jaime!_ an older man’s voice rang out from the other side of the door, and he knocked on the wood with a shriveled old fist. Without awaiting a summons, the doorknob turned while brother and sister continued their forbidden dance, buried in each other and breathing their pleas. Cersei could feel her pleasure building and building until she could hold it back no longer. She came the minute the door swung open and the man walked in.

 _Jaime!_ She moaned loudly, and she raked her fingernails down his back. Those scratches would still be there days from now, she knew, and it made her smile.

The intruder gasped when he saw the two joined as one, breathless upon the bed. He echoed Cersei’s cry, paused with his mouth agape to correct himself, and then addressed her with her proper title,   _Jaime? Your Grace?_

Words came tumbling out of his mouth, all jumbled reproaches peppered with “treason” and “disgrace” and “the Seven”. Jaime gently set her aside on the mattress, dressing himself quickly in his leathers while Cersei remained completely exposed, unashamed, as the man continued his scolding. She saw that he was making an effort to avert his gaze from her naked breasts.

It was Jon Aryyn, the Hand of the King, the pious old fool that he was, come to expose their sin to the world. He had discovered them doing what they had been doing secretly all their lives; stumbled upon the secret hidden so deftly within their golden-haired children and stolen glances across the throne room.

But Cersei paid no notice to Lord Aryyn’s outrage, and she found herself barely able to conceal another grin. It had been like all those years ago in her bedroom, she realized, with Jaime on top of her and her body writhing in ecstasy beneath him. Just a girl and a boy in love. Nothing else.

Cersei stood and allowed her long, flowing hair to cover her chest. Jon Aryyn’s eyes had no other place to wander, and when she saw his face slacken as he took in the view, she wondered if she could make him as hard as her twin. _Please, Lord Hand, would you be so kind as to spare your queen a moment to clothe herself?_ Aryyn’s mouth opened as though he intended to say something, but he turned, still aghast, and rushed out of the room instead.

The sound of his retreating footsteps in the empty corridor suddenly reminded Cersei of Jaime’s from those long, silvery nights when they were younger _. Punishment, shame, and emptiness_ … _The foolishness of it all._ She felt a pang of panic, but held it back.

She quickly dressed in the nightclothes they had strewn across the floor, giving her brother a final kiss before departing, herself. Jaime’s body was rigid and his fists were clenched, but she could feel that he was still ready for her beneath his breeches.

 _I’ll fix this_ , she told him on her way out, _A Lannister always pays her debts._

~

Cersei would conceal her tracks like she always had by ridding herself of the old man and silencing the rumors before they even parted his lips. Their “child’s play” would be forgotten by nightfall while her scratches would remain on Jaime’s back for countless days and nights, hidden under his white cloak.

Perhaps she’d run back up to Jaime’s chamber and write of her own history in that silly book he was always reading. _The lioness of Casterly Rock, queen of Westeros, wife of Robert Baratheon, and trueborn daughter of Tywin Lannister,_ it would say, _As sharp as any sword; as deadly as any man._

All of Westeros would read of the twin Lannisters' glory and legend.

She let herself laugh as she walked to find Maester Pycelle.

  _Shhh…_


End file.
